


Pain

by chaostheoryy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Just sad as fuck okay, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaostheoryy/pseuds/chaostheoryy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson struggles with the pain of losing his best friend by finding comfort in a different kind of pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain

**Author's Note:**

> This a short drabble that I inadvertently discovered in my email drafts. Apparently I wrote this about two years ago so bear with me if there are any mistakes.

Some say pain is weakness leaving the body. But for John Watson, pain was an escape from weakness.

With his best friend dead, he was forced to find a new companion. One that could ease his mind and make him forget about the images of that day. The cold cement painted red with the blood of his best friend. And the lifeless body of Sherlock Holmes strewn across the ground. Motionless. Cold. Just like the cement he was laying upon....

John had found his comfort in the simple piece of metal he called his razor. What once was a beauty item became an infliction of pain. Some days it was just one swipe of the blade across his forearm. Other days he just couldn't seem to stop. He spilled his blood just as his long lost friend had. It had become a routine for him. A daily basis. A bit of blood in the morning. Wipe it clean. Cover it up with his jumper. Live his sad, lonely life. Return to the flat. And start again. No one knew. No one cared to find out. How could they? And if they did, they just wouldn't understand. Sherlock was gone. And John had nothing left. His weakness was being alone. And the only way to eliminate that weakness was to find comfort in pain. Pain was his friend. And pain would always be around. He would never have to worry about losing pain. Pain couldn't jump from a building or tell him goodbye. It would always be there like the sun in the sky; pay attention to it or not, it would always be there. Some days required a bit more pain than the rest.

And the anniversary of Sherlock's death was always the hardest.

Three years. It had been three bloody years since that day. And with each year, the razor became more and more of a prominent part in John's life. And his arms weren't the only locations for his pain. He had switched to more solidified areas. His chest. His thighs. Just searching for that pain. That release of his weakness. He knew how terrible it was. Knew how helpless he seemed. How unhealthy this activity was. But, Christ, he couldn't stop. This was his only escape. The only way to feel the least guilty for Sherlock's death. If he hurt, he was connected to the painful death of his best friend. His blood joined with the blood of his best friend.

John returned to the flat from visiting Sherlock's grave on that rainy day. That three year anniversary. He came back cold. Empty. Filled with guilt. Alone... Longing for an escape. Longing for pain. Pain he could find easily in his bathroom cabinet... He made his way up the stairs into the flat and stripped his dripping coat, hanging it on the coat rack before he found his way to the bathroom. Prying open the cabinet, he found his companion waiting for him. All cleansed from his last session. Just waiting to help John find that escape. Amazing how an item so small, so dangerous could bring perfect pain to a man in need. As John rolled up his sleeve, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

There was so much he had wanted to say at Sherlock's grave that day. He wanted to say how much he missed his detective. How guilty he felt for being alive while Sherlock was not. And... How deeply in love with him he had really been. But all he could manage were two simple words: "I'm sorry."

John tightened his hold on his razor and inhaled as he made a move to drag the blade across the flesh of his left wrist.

But he couldn't.

Something had stopped him. He opened his eyes and looked down to see a bundle of pale fingers wrapped around his wrist. That something was a person. And when that person stepped close enough to exchange body heat, that person whispered desperately in John's ear, "Don't. John.... You're better than that..."

And in that moment, John realized there was no pain. No need to escape. When he looked in the mirror, he had the confirmation of the person's voice.

His best friend.

Sherlock Holmes.

Was alive.


End file.
